the ballad of andromeda and perseus
by Queequg471
Summary: He never noticed the girl in the back. And now he can't not notice her. A somewhat modern ExE fic.


**OH HOLY CRAP I FINALLY FINISHED IT.**

**Few things:**

**1. This is a modern setting AU, but that's really not mentioned very much**

**2. Enjolras just kind of jumps between causes**

**3. Set in Paris**

**4. Characterization jumps all over the place**

**5. I am HORRIBLY unsatisfied with the ending.**

**6. Eponine and Enjolras in this are Ramin and Sam**

_The act is beginning_

_We're not so different._

That's what he tells the _les citoyens_ in his speeches. That is what he tells his _amis_. That is what he tells Gavroche to get him to come inside, when his lips are stained blue and his teeth chatter, yet he still refuses "them charities".

He is bourgeois, high class; he should not care about the woes of the labour market.

But he does, because all men are equal under god and they are not so different.

That's what he tells them, and maybe a little of what he tells himself

But they are.

They are, for he does not prefer the streets to a warm bed, as Gavroche does. He does not _need _employment after his studies are done, his wealthy family will take care of that. He does not speak to those in the innards of the slums, though it is them he hopes to help.

And he does not, cannot, hang in the back, nearly invisible, never making a sound, like Marius' _fantôme_.

_Playing a game in which silence is golden_

He knows his group has a bad reputation around town.

The police don't like them, and they are not afraid to show it, usually with blows to the head, arms, legs, and wherever else they can reach.

They are small injuries, not a big deal, certainly nothing he ever needs help with, but this particular head wound just _will not_ stop bleeding.

He is alone (so he thinks) in the café.

He certainly didn't expect the voice that came from the back of the room.

"Harder."

He wouldn't have even identified it as feminine at first. Rough and yet faint, like it hadn't been used in a long time.

His head swung around, eyes trying to pick out the voice's source.

With a scoff, a figure in an obscenely huge coat pushed themself off the wall and flops down beside Enjolras.

It _is _a woman, that much he can tell. Tangled dark hair falls into her face, obscuring it as she takes the bit of cloth from his hand and presses it hard into the bowl of water, almost angrily.

"You have to press it harder to the cut if you want it to have any effect, 'else that bleeding isn't gonna stop any time soon."

She's tiny, he can see that. The majority of the space she takes up on the chair is swallowed by her coat.

Her dark hair is matted and tangled, and the fingernails that shove the cloth back into his hands are caked with dirt.

He imagines she is in manual labour, or perhaps she makes her own work, and then wonders why is musing on this at all.

He presses the cloth to his head, harder this time.

A sting of pain flashes through the open wound, and he hisses at the sudden pain. It's the noise that finally makes her look up.

Her eyes are brown. He doesn't understand why that makes his chest tighten, but it does.

Her face is drawn, but her cheeks show the promise of dimples, like his own.

She scoffs again, and he's starting to imagine this as her natural expression.

"That all it takes to wound the great Enjolras? A tiny cut?"

And just like that, Éponine Thénardierstrides into Enjolras' life, confident and strong, and never bothers to leave.

_He'll always be there singing songs in my head_

She comes often. To the meetings, he means.

Perhaps she always did, he just never noticed.

And once he did, he couldn't stop.

She is _les citoyens_, he rationalizes. She is who he is trying to help.

Éponine never talks, just sits in the very back.

More and more come to his speeches, more still join his rallies. He addresses everyone, yet every word he says, he can feel her eyes on him.

She watches but never comments, and Enjolras wonders if that is a comment in itself.

_Look, I find some of what you teach suspect_

Once again, Enjolras drags Grantaire home by his arm, the man almost passed out.

Grantaire lives mere moments from him (for a man so impassive about any of their causes, Grantaire could never manage far away from their group).

He drags his friend's deadweight home, tossing some Advil next to him for the next morning and making sure the bathroom is in close proximity.

When he arrives home, she is sitting on the front stoop.

His gaze says it all, but she doesn't comment on her sudden appearance, nor her defeated expression, nor the blood trickling from her temple.

He opens the door without a word and she shuffles in.

He guesses he never expected her to stay, and it _was _merely a kind thing to do, letting her in to begin with.

But it doesn't explain the sudden flash of disappointment when he wakes to find her gone.

_I never really cared too much, don't get attached_

It was the unfamiliar number that should have been his first clue.

Like everything else in his life, his contact list is rigorously organized.

He gave his cell number to very few people, even fewer actually call.

Éponine clearly did not _want_ to be calling him, he can tell that from her tone alone.

"Can you pick me up?" is how it starts.

_Didn't I say the world was cruel?_

It's her father, he learns.

Not through her, of course.

Through Gavroche, but he still never understands why she keeps going back.

(She'll only tell him her father has many friends and her presence is required with them. Long absences anger him. Blood in, blood out).

After awhile, he stops asking.

("He needs to beat someone. If it's me, he will leave my brother.")

_Fear can turn to love_

It's nice having another body keeping his bed warm, he thinks.

And realistically that's all it is.

The perfect scenario.

Éponine did not expect anything, and he was simply helping out the lower class.

She had a warm bed to sleep in and a steady source of food.

It was not as if he need her to be there.

_You want to lose your only friend?_

She comes by more often.

They talk more. She's smart, he realizes. Smart and well spoken, and Marius could do worse, not that he'd ever notice.

As it is, Enjolras doesn't see any harm in talking to an interesting girl.

_And how the cracks begin to show_

They spend nearly every day together now.

Enjolras has come to expect it.

Éponine is like nobody he has ever met, and he's beginning to forget what life was like before.

He now quantifies his life into pre and post Éponine.

_Secret and strange angel_

One week, it's her turn.

He texts her to come over, just that, "come over".

(Even that took too long to be able to admit. They're not so different that way.)

She doesn't say anything, just gathers some rags and some antiseptic, and silently cleans his wounds.

Mechanically.

Automatically.

You'd think they'd barely know each other, only her fingers catch once in his, a little too long to be accidental.

_No voice_

He gets sent to the hospital once.

It's not a big issue, really. His leg has a long, jagged cut down it (he'd be hard pressed to say where it came from), and they need to stitch it up.

(He still maintains the doctor held a grudge against him and tugged the stitches extra painfully)

They ask him if he wants to contact his next of kin and he doesn't have one, but he's not really sure why her number spills out of his mouth.

She is so furious when she gets there that there is practically smoke coming out of her ears. The nurses move out of her way quickly.

He hears them throw around the word "Thénardier" behind her and if she weren't already so pissed he'd have gone after them.

She drags him out of the hospital by the scruff of his coat, demanding to know why "he fucking let a nurse call and tell her he was in the fucking hospital, Enjolras"

The car swerves down the road as Enjolras grips the side for dear life, and makes it a vow never to put that look on her face again.

After that, they stitch each other up at home.

_Wonder what my struggle means_

Éponine could have been a doctor in a previous life, he tells her.

Every time she comes to him, always unannounced, always bleeding or bruised, he does his best to stitch her up, but when she does the same for him, her movements are deft and experienced. Her dirty fingers smooth the bandages down, the gauze is wrapped firmly, and Enjolras feels better instantly for having her around.

Perhaps that doesn't just extend to his injuries.

_Wildly my mind beats against you_

He supposes to an outsider, their relationship (or lack thereof) would seem nothing more than a business arrangement, solemn and impersonal.

He patches her up; she patches him.

They barely talk as they do, save for the occasional hiss as the sting of the antiseptic burns their skin.

But they don't see the Éponine he does (he likes to think nobody does).

They don't see the Éponine that will sneak up behind him and grab him by the shoulders, scaring him half to death.

They don't see the glint in her eyes, her mouth quirking in what almost passes for a smile (Éponine never smiles, not really. He doesn't ever need to wonder why).

Those people don't see her lean up to whisper in his ear (it's usually something nonsensical, perhaps a movie quote or a food slogan. Once it was a quote from Wuthering Heights, he still wonders how she knew it). Her eyes shine, and she takes of down the street, the look on her face giving him no choice but to follow.

They race nearly neck and neck until they reach the Place de la Bastille, where she collapses dramatically into him, and he can almost pretend to feel her shoulders shaking with giggles.

It's there that he kisses her for the first time, a full six months after they meet, because the urge to do so he feels in that moment is like nothing he has ever felt.

Her cheeks are flushed as she pulls away.

The next time, it's she who leans in.

_In you is a world of promise_

When they finally unite, there is no storm.

Outside, he means.

He almost expected there to be.

Her mouth quirks, as they lie there while he strokes her back.

She almost smiles, her ever-tangled hair spilling onto the pillow, and he hates what he's become. He hates it, but she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in that moment.

_Let me be your shelter_

She leaves before he wakes up, back home, and he punches a wall and doesn't care that it leaves a mark.

She took a risk, he knows, coming here, and staying overnight.

Her father will wonder where she was, and she won't be able to lie to him.

And he is the Great Enjolras, he rallies the people, he protects the poor, he sacrifices himself again and again, just for the feeble attempt at fixing his country.

But the Great Enjolras has one person he truly cares about, and he can't help her.

_And know why we whisper in hallways_

The police know they are coming. They're ready, and Enjolras swears he didn't see the hit coming until it was too late, and the impact of the fall rams him into a tree.

They are let out of detention two hours later, and he comes back to the apartment knowing how bad he looks.

His face is coated in blood, but he makes sure Courfeyrac is cleaned up first, so that he can usher Gavroche elsewhere. The little boy will not grow accustomed to people with blood on their faces, blood on their hands.

If he can honour Éponine's wishes in any way, he will do this for her.

_Once I had dreams_

He thinks the furthest he ever falls is the time they try to run.

He exists for nothing but the cause, whatever that may be.

(It's the alcohol. They are convinced, and Grantaire corroborates).

He thinks it was her who suggested it.

No worry about_ les citoyens_, or Éponine's father.

Nothing standing in their way and their whole lives ahead of them.

They make it to Toulon.

The Patron-Minette finds them (he doesn't know how) and beats Éponine hard enough to keep her on her back for three full days (she expected this).

Then they find Gavroche and run a knife through his leg (she didn't expect this).

She sees her brother's tiny form curled onto Enjolras and Courfeyrac's couch, Courfeyrac stroking his hair as Joly treats his wound.

They don't try to run again.

_I'd forgotten how to smile until your candle burned my skin_

He asks her once what she's thinking about, as they lie together, she allowing him to pass his fingers through the dark tresses that spill over his pillow (she lies closer now).

She gives a tiny shrug, and for a moment he thinks she won't answer.

So when her voice softly breathes "Andromeda and Perseus" a few moments later, Enjolras cannot help the shocked look that passes across his face.

She gives him a light slap on his bare shoulder. "You surprised?"

"Greek mythology doesn't seem like something you'd be interested in," he admits, smiling at her (he smiles more now. On some level, perhaps he hopes that if he smiles more, she will as well. Just so he could see what it looks like, just once.)

"She was chained helplessly to a rock and had to wait to be saved, _petite_. Doesn't strike me as very representative of you."

She casts her head down, her fingers twisting rapidly, nervously into each other.

"Perseus didn't even _know_ her, but he cared enough to save her. She was going to be nothing but a sacrifice, a sacrifice by her own parents, but she was saved. Saved by fate and love."

Her cheeks flame, and it's utterly adorable (Enjolras has long since stopped reprimanding himself for these nonsensical thoughts, and instead attributes it to Éponine. Her influence over him is something he could never quite define).

"I don't know. Sometimes I just think…to be able to believe in such things may be nice."

Enjolras can't think of anything to say, so he kisses her (and despite the Enjolras his friends know, this never seems like a bad idea).

_You slew all my giants, ignoring your own_

He spends less and less time on his earlier causes, and his friends notice.

One day, they corner him and insist he pay more attention to "what is most important to him".

And Enjolras can't remember a time where his passions for a better world didn't consume him, so he agrees.

Éponine doesn't even react when he tells her he must cut down on their time together.

So he falls back into most of his old routines. He goes to rallies, he organizes protests, he stays up late to plot manoeuvres around the police, and it is familiar. It is comforting.

Until the latest rally leads to several arrests and Enjolras getting a decent club on the head.

He's fine (he's always fine) but he must have been hit harder than he thought because his feet take him in a direction afterwards that is certainly not the path home.

Her screams are the first thing he hears.

Then her sobs (he's never heard her cry before).

Then the slurred, angry voice of her father, and then one more blow.

The proceeding silence is far more chilling than her screams had been.

_The promise she made has grown impossible to keep_

The flames of unrest are further kindled.

Wages sink lower, more lose their jobs.

More children are left on the street, more men and women diseased and dying.

Enjolras can feel the coming revolt in his bones.

The government will listen. Legislation will change. History will be made, he knows.

Soon.

Somehow it doesn't fill him with the excitement it used to.

_Why does distance make us wise?_

He's not there.

He's not there and they rush her in pile of bloody rags towards the hospital, and it _had_ to he be the one day they finally get an audience with an actual government official.

There's more they're not telling him, he can tell.

If they did not know before, the Patron-Minette knows now. Éponine has a place to stay, an escape from them, and this cannot be.

He doesn't want to contemplate what it means for him, much less for them, but that is not what is important right now.

Éponine is hurt, really hurt, and the urge to be with her physically burns.

_Now you're lost above me_

He doesn't go.

The hospital releases her.

The sky darkens with the promise of a coming storm.

Enjolras knows how it feels.

And then Gavroche is taken.

_Past the point of no return_

Well, perhaps "taken" is a bit too strong a word, but it fits the scenario.

Thénardier has had his bloody gang kidnap and torture his own son, simply to prove a point to Enjolras and his friends.

_Do not mess with those that are ours_.

It is loud and clear.

They look far and over for the boy, Courfeyrac nearly in tears, but cannot find him, nor his sister.

They agree to split up, which, in hindsight was probably not wise, but it did seem the best option for covering the most ground.

Enjolras is tasked with exploring the south side of the slums.

He finds he knows it better than he thinks. Perhaps he has followed Éponine home a few too many times.

_This will always be a problem_

He still finds it ironic that he finds them without really looking in any specific places.

He would still be hard pressed to say where it was.

The blood is the first thing he notices, simply because there is so much of it.

It's not even all Gavroche's, either. As a matter of fact, the boy looks relatively unharmed, just stuck and terrified.

It seems to be coming from a bundle in the corner.

He doesn't have to strain to know what that bundle contains.

Enjolras casts an incredulous look to Gavroche, and his eyes are full of ears as he looks at Enjolras.

"She said she'd take it instead," he whispers shakily.

The full force of that statement weighs on Enjolras for only a moment, because before him sits the entirety of Thénardier's gang.

His hand slips into his pocket for his phone, and he manages to send only a few letters before an enormous beefy hand takes it and crushes it underneath their boot.

Thénardier's slimy face is right up in Enjolras', so close he can smell his horrid breath. He grins, and Enjolras guesses he finds himself intimidating.

"May we help ya, boy? Somethin' ya came for?"

Summoning every ounce of will, he nods, pointing to both Gavroche and the bloody figure that is Éponine in the corner.

"Them."

The laughs are uproarious. Not a good sign.

"We don't owe nothin' of them to you," says one of the mousier-looking men.

"I know," Enjolras' voice is surprisingly self-assured.

"So what makes you think we're gon' let you have 'em?"

At this, Enjolras smiles.

He smiles, because he hears Éponine's voice in his head.

"Perseus and Andromeda."

As if it is a full statement,

No shock, the Patron-Minette is absolutely confused, something that works in Enjolras' favour.

"And you are the sea-monster. If I can slay you, if my people beat yours, I get them, and you are to never come anywhere near them again."

The laughs are, again, uproarious, but Enjolras knows they'll accept. As sure as they are cowards, they'll accept.

"You wanna commit suicide, boy? We'd be glad to help ya."

Enjolras is learned, yet long years of school could not possibly teach him how Éponine and Gavroche came from these people.

He hardly has time to muse on this, though, as Thénardier is advancing, and fast.

_But I didn't know I'd love you so much_

The ensuing battle is long and bloody but Enjolras is Perseus.

He is Perseus, fighting to show his Andromeda that love can win, once in awhile, because that is what he feels for all that his Éponine is to him.

Love.

_Sometimes there's not enough time_

He never could remember when his friends arrived, but they did. They were there and fists were flying and blood was spilling and Gavroche was crying but his fists were swinging too.

Enjolras' mind sang as they fought, harder than they had ever fought in any of their rallies, because this meant something, and for once, Enjolras wasn't at war with himself.

He would save them.

He would.

He would finally end this for her.

And then Thénardier is below him as feels the hard metal of a gun pressed to his hand. He trembles as Enjolras brandishes it, like the coward he is.

Enjolras' sandals are Perseus', winged, but he is conflicted. He is not a killer, and he promised, he _promised _Éponine that he would not let Gavroche see him with blood on his hands.

But her blood flows already.

The blood flows, and until the blood stops flowing, it'll never stop.

His head wages internal war as Enjolras presses the gun to Thénardier's forehead.

He is living in red, red like the rivers of blood flowing from his Éponine. Like the blood from the torture his sister's love saved Gavroche from.

Red like the anger, the burning anger he feels to this sorry excuse for a human who has made those he cares about suffer so much.

Thénardier jerks only once as the bullet pierces his skull, and it is over.

_You were the song all along_

There is an after.

In the after, he sits by Éponine's bed for hours, holding her hand, praying a hand through her hair, willing her to wake.

In the after, Courfeyrac and Grantaire carry Gavroche home, and make him a bed on the floor. He needs permanence, they say. He needs to know he will be safe now.

In the after, Éponine smiles as she wakes. A real smile (followed by a grimace of pain, but Enjolras barely notices). A real smile, and it was so worth the wait because Enjolras is quite sure there will never be a lovelier sight.

In the after, Paris only changes in small ways. A job opening here, a bill proposed there. Enjolras is learning to accept that.

And in the after, the wedding is small, the child is a boy, and as Enjolras is gathered by a group of people he never expected to have, in a place he never expected to be, he marvels at what this strange thing called love could do, and supposes he has Éponine to thank for that.

Éponine, Perseus and Andromeda.

_Love _


End file.
